Genesis
by sakurasencha
Summary: Their unholy alliance was inevitable, but still had to start somewhere. Thomas and O'Brien friendship origin, set pre series 1.
1. Planted Seeds

_I find Thomas and O__'Brien to be fascinating characters, especially in regards to their friendship, and have wondered about how they formed such a close knit bond. I'd like to thank _**jadeandlilac**_ for betaing!  
_

* * *

**Planted Seeds**

The morning post yielded for her a solitary letter, nearly a twofold increase than usual. Sarah O'Brien frowned at the unexpected interruption and set down her spoon. A trim fingernail neatly tore through the seam of the envelope, and with concentrated brows she began to read.

Her frown deepened.

Around her the breakfast clatter and chatter continued unabated. No one stopped to inquire over the identity of Sarah's correspondent. No one asked with restrained courtesy what news she had from home, from friends, from anyone at all connected to the taciturn Lady's maid. No one paid even the slightest heed at all, not to the way her eyes twitched as they read over the last, chilling lines, nor to the throat which swallowed sharp and hard as she slipped the letter into her pocket.

Rising without preamble, she escaped to an empty corridor to allow her mind to process without the strangling grip of another's gaze. She tarried there for a while, knowing her sudden absence would go unnoticed. Though confined indoors with dozens of others, Sarah felt as though she lived in a lonely garden, protected by deep thickets, tough and impenetrable.

Presently Sarah calmed her thumping heart, subdued her emotions, and returned to the kitchen to retrieve her Lady's breakfast tray.

A wisp of a kitchen maid shoved the cooling breakfast into her hands. "Where have you been?" she asked with due deference, but there was no mistaking her look of faint reproach. Sarah was not in a mood to be tested.

"I'm not late," she snapped, and leaned over the tray to say in a cool, steady voice, "Don't try and make it out that it's my fault you've set out Lady Grantham's breakfast early. And if she happens to ask you can be sure she'll know exactly whose to blame if her eggs aren't piping."

Leaving the girl to cower in her wake, Sarah ascended the steps. Her face was smooth as polished silver; nothing was betrayed on her way up the winding staircase. Each foot was placed unfalteringly above the other, and upon noiselessly entering the bright and airy room not a single rattle of bone china could be heard as Sarah laid down the tray over her mistress' lap, her face an impressive veneer of neutrality.

Not that she would have expected Lady Grantham to notice anything amiss, even had Sarah been formed from much weaker mettle.

_I know you'll be surprised to hear from me, Sally, but I thought I ought to tell you –_

Her Ladyship bid her "good morning" in that lazy, half-accented drawl, and Sarah duly refocused her attention. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and a warm smile of welcome, Lady Grantham proceeded to reduce the level of O'Brien's existence to that of the wallpaper, eyes glued downwards as she idly flipped through the first pages of her magazine and nibbled on a slice of precisely buttered toast.

Many and long minutes swept by in silence, the Lady reading while the maid worked. When it finally suited her, Lady Grantham began to speak.

"I'll be going out this afternoon," she said, her voice abrupt but casual. "Another fitting for Lady Mary." She said the last with a knowing set in her eyes, as though conveying the tedium of trying on new and expensive frocks for the third day in a row, not a jot of which could be comprehended by a lady's maid who wore the same dress everyday and had grown up mending rags into skirts.

"I'm sure all the extra outings must wear on you, milady."

Lady Grantham's eyes took to dawdling out the large, open windows as trails of breeze disrupted the peace of the drapery, and grew reflective. "My baby girl's first season. How time flies."

"Indeed, milady."

"I remember when she was only this bouncy, little thing demanding we buy her ponies and fascinated with mud." She sighed. "How much she's changed. I worry for her sometimes."

"Naturally, milady. A good mother always does."

"The whole prospect has made her terribly excited, but I don't want her to become too hopeful. Nothing's official, of course, but there are certain…duties, you understand, which the family expects her to fulfill." Her Ladyship often toed the line of discretion when it came to confiding in her maid. At the moment she favored prevarication, as if three nights ago Sarah's ears hadn't suffered the complaints for an hour straight of Lady Mary's utter disregard for Mr. Patrick.

But the tone was set. And Sarah could do nothing but follow the lead.

"It would be a very good thing for the family," she offered vaguely.

"And not just for the family. It's a brilliant match for Mary, but I'm not sure she sees it that way. She's determined to enjoy herself during her season. I imagine she's rather looking forward to flirting with handfuls of gentlemen and falling into a romance or two." She gave another sigh. "I just don't want her to be disappointed. Her opinion of herself is rather too high, much more than is good for her, and I'm afraid that she'll soon..."

Her ladyship blathered on. While Sarah was pointedly reminded of every single one of Lady Mary's perceived faults she never once ceased in carrying out her duties. A blouse was selected, a skirt draped neatly across the chair, Sarah all the while soaking up the cares and worries of her betters, a human sponge whose osmosis only ran one way.

She supposed her ladyship would never bother to ask after her life or family. Or whether or not _she_ had anyone back home to be worried for.

_Alfie's been caught out. They turned him out of the house, and I've only just got a letter from him yesterday –_

Sarah's hand grazed over her pocket. In the span of rising from her repose on the bed to embarking on a new one on the chair by the vanity, her Ladyship had gone from whining over her perfect daughter to her perfect husband.

"I sometimes wonder about his taste," she confided while perusing her jewel case, one hand lifting out a delicate strand while the other beckoned for Sarah's assistance. "Do you like this one? I confess it was never my favorite, but it was a gift from Robert and you know how those things go."

She knew nothing of the sort, and never would. In one, graceful motion Sarah slipped the set of fine jet beads over Lady Grantham's swan-like neck, drawing upon every measure of willpower not to strangle her with them.

* * *

By the time Lady Grantham was properly gussied up for a busy morning of lounging, the hall was nearly emptied of occupants, the servants' breakfast long cleared away. It would be hours before she was again summoned, and for a while Sarah sat morosely by, repairing a detached seam on one of her ladyship's cream chemises. The flimsy slip of silk was already several years old, and a less thrifty lady's maid might have done away with the garment altogether. But Sarah found herself reluctant. It still had some life in it, and growing up with next to nothing made one painfully incapable of discarding the old adage "waste not, want not", no matter how many silk chemises a week's pin money could buy.

Nimble fingers worked with the slim needle and even slimmer thread until a row of tight, neat stiches proclaimed their decades of experience.

She grimaced at the sight.

_He says it'll be the army, or perhaps the navy, for him. Think of it, Sally. Our Alfie, in the army! God help him -_

"Having yourself a bit of a rest, Miss O'Brien?"

It took a shocking moment for Sarah to realize she'd been staring blindly at the mended garment for some time. Mrs. Hughes could be parsimonious in her reprimands when she chose to be, but now she spared nothing in revealing her displeasure at the apparent idleness. A lesser being might wither like a parched lily under those severe eyes and that pursed mouth; yet Sarah sat calmly by, undaunted.

"Just doing some mending for her ladyship, Mrs. Hughes. I've finished this one, as you can well see, and I'll be moving on to the next in due time, whether or not you care to stand over my shoulder and supervise."

The housekeeper bristled.

"Have a care, Miss O'Brien, and watch after that tone of yours."

In a sweep of skirt and a jangle of keys Mrs. Hughes was gone, perhaps to mete out to some other poor soul a vocal scourging – cords of reproach meant to sting and shame them into submission; but Sarah could not find it in herself to be properly chastised. She'd known Elsie Hughes back before she wielded the draconian authority of housekeeper, and it'd be awhile yet before her voice had the power to bid _her_ to do anything.

The next article in her workbox, a hem that needed altering, was finished quickly, as was the next and the next one after, and she passed a number of hours in this way, unmoving and silent, until her basket stared back up empty from beside her. Another space of time elapsed as she sat idling, the length of which she hardly registered. Her life was guided by the tinkling of bells, not the sure, steady rhythm of the clock, and with nothing left to accomplish and her backside growing weary of the unforgiving bench, she escaped through the back door, to the feeling of fresh air and the illusion of freedom.

The door creaked open and Sarah felt the first burst of cold air nip at her skin. Rather than plunge on through she loitered in the doorway, teetering for a moment on indecision. A few paces away, her undisputed "spot", was just now occupied by a stranger.

Well, not quite a stranger. She'd never met the man – almost a boy, really – but she recognized the face through the cloud of smoke sauntering about him. It was the new footman, introduced that very morning at breakfast. But she hadn't heeded Mr. Carson's droning introduction a second longer than was necessary to glean that he was young and inexperienced, and for the life of her could not recall his name.

The boy must have heard her, for he cocked his head around and raised an eyebrow – an impertinence of the highest order, and already Sarah could tell she would not rub well with this new footman. He expelled a vapory puff, and his dark eyes roved unabashedly once, twice, three times up and down her thin form drowning in a sea of black cotton. Under a pair of dark, trimmed eyebrows two black beads glimmered in an audacious way, appraising her face.

"Want a light?" he finally said.

She brushed by him and stood several paces off. "Don't bother yourself."

But the young man would bother himself, and strode over as he struck a match. She soured her lips at the flame as it connected with the tip of the cigarette dangling between her fingers.

"No bother at all," he smiled. "Miss O'Brien, isn't it?"

She nodded.

A small silence gathered before O'Brien completed the introductions, in her usual pleasant way.

"And have _you_ got yourself a name?"

"What, you mean you didn't catch it this morning?" He feigned an offended look, and then quietly chuckled. "Thomas. Thomas Barrow."

It was the laughter that clued her in.

"First post as footman?" she said, sucking in a breath. He appeared impressed.

"You got me pegged. Mr. Carson wasn't sure about giving the post over to a stranger with no experience, but I won him over."

And it was easy to see why. He was handsome, and winsome, and although Sarah didn't think herself obliged to offer any words of warning, his perfect smile and perfect hair made it impossible not to cast down torrents onto his triumphant parade.

"You might think you've got things made, landing a post like this, but I'll warn you now: _their_ life isn't our life, and things aren't as grand here as they'd like you to believe." She paused and blew out a column of smoke. "Mr. Carson runs a tight ship, and he won't tolerate sloppiness."

"That's likely the only thing he and I will have in common," he replied, his free hand swiping imaginary specks from his immaculate livery. "Don't worry about me, Miss O'Brien. I know a thing or two about getting by, and they haven't got me fooled."

Sarah narrowed her eyes.

"We work hard here, everyday. Nobody expects anything less."

The shape of his smirk sent her teeth audibly grinding.

"You think me a lazy one, Miss O'Brien?"

"I think you're young, and with the brains of a clamshell." She threw down her fag, peering down at the embers as she stubbed them out, then treated him to her best look of contempt. "I'll try not to hold it against you. But just be sure that the next time I come out I won't have to suffer your witless chatter while I have my smoke."

She removed herself with a scowl, indistinguishable from her normal countenance, and unusually ruffled by her encounter with the young man – Thomas, she reminded herself. It was his easy urbanity that irked her, the smooth way he ingratiated himself with slick words and even slicker manners. Who was this tall, dark interloper, barely at Downton for three hours altogether before he felt it his right to intrude on her only place of comfort in this monstrous house?

They might not have him fooled, but he didn't have her fooled neither, and she resolved then and there to have nothing more to do with the snake.

Ruminating over all his faults, O'Brien stopped abruptly in the middle of the staircase as she realized that it had been the longest conversation she'd had with anyone outside of her ladyship all week.

* * *

Thomas didn't need to be told he was different. The fact of it was already well known to him, had hounded him the entire length of his life – from his father's home, to the streets of Leeds, and into every one of his short-lived posts. It followed him even here, to the northern wilderness of Downton Abbey. But no one inside of its ancient halls could know that as of yet.

He wondered how long it would be till they figured it out.

Hopefully just long enough to secure a tidy sum of cash, enough to strike out on his own. He knew he was clever and tenacious, and, most important of all, a survivor.

On his first day at the Abbey, after breakfast and the introductions, where he'd given his most winning smile, every straight pearly white flashing brilliantly, Walter had taken him on the grand tour. Drawing rooms, parlors, libraries, game rooms. Towards the end they all blurred together in a magnificent stream of opulence, searing his wonder with ornate sameness that at last ceased to amaze him.

It had struck him then that from this day forward he would be ever surrounded by the forbidden fruit, the riches within his reach. But they would never be his. An accident of birth, the curse of birth, would ensure that he would struggle every day till his dying breath, while the Crawleys would live on, happily unaware, blithe in their splendor, completely ignorant of the world aching and groaning at their feet.

There would be a training period, Walter had explained, on account of his not having waited a table before. The following weeks were spent under the first footman's rigorous tutelage, and by the end of the second he was finally allowed to handle the crystal.

"Careful, careful – hold the tray steady. It may be empty now but in time there'll be enough crystal to do in your wages for a month if you so much as chip one. That's good. It's all in the feet – you want to roll them, like – there, that's good, that's all right."

It went on in that vein for three hours. By the end of it Thomas longed for a smoke. Perhaps a bullet to the brain as well, but a smoke would do for now.

He made his way quietly downstairs. Outside the back door he saw a pillar of black ensconced in a cloud of grey: her Ladyship's maid, Miss Sarah O'Brien.

Thomas smirked.

She seemed an odd sort – a bit old, but that could hardly be helped – and something about her face made him suspect she appeared older than her years.

The thought gave Thomas a shudder. Ageing badly was one of his worst fears.

He walked over, planting himself firmly beside her.

"Fancy meeting you again."

She stared blankly ahead, any surprise ably masked.

"Hardly. We two are the only ones who care to smoke in this place."

Thomas flicked a sly glance at the few groundskeepers milling about and puffing away, but her shrewd gaze missed nothing.

"Outdoor staff doesn't count," she said with a tart look.

"Then I suppose there's no escaping each other."

Sarah looked him over.

"You could always get off and find your own spot. I've been smoking here for a good five years, now, and I'll not give it up for some upstart strutting around like God's gift to livery." Sarah waited for his indignant retreat, but though every other tender-hearted snowflake in the place would have expressed outrage at her frank dismissal, Thomas simply smiled, wide and toothless, a snake that'd caught its prey.

He repositioned himself directly by her side and within seconds had a cigarette lit and ready for consumption. He looked lazily at the ring of flame eating away the shrinking white paper.

"I like it here. And I don't mind the company," he said, taking a pretentious drag and blowing it out pointedly.

Sarah turned back to stare at the roaming gardeners. So that's how it would be – a new smoking companion, whether she liked it or not. She tapped some dangling ash into the dirt, surprised at not feeling repulsed at the thought.

* * *

The next few weeks settled them into a routine. Even the busiest of servants were granted a small parcel of time where there was little to do, and schedules aligned so that neither party was unattended when they took their smoke breaks.

The reprieves were largely silent and impersonal. Sarah still had cares enough to fill the Atlantic, all of them centered around the brother whose existence seemed by now washed away with the tide. But all that would stay sealed away, masked even to him. They talked very little, and what they did speak of was confined to the faults and failings of the other occupants of the Abbey, most often couched in an amusing anecdote or withering observation. Sarah had not realized the amount of pent up ill will she felt towards her employers, her colleagues, and the world in general. Too many bad turns had sent her down a never-ending spiral, and it was only this strange young man that seemed to have the power to lift her back out of it.

One Tuesday morning when a family outing guaranteed a lull in activity, they made their way out the back door in succession, she her usual sullen self, and he in a festive mood.

"Got me a hair cut," he informed O'Brien after they had both made themselves comfortable. "Did you notice?" She honored him with a blistering scowl.

"I've got better things to do than stare at your head wishing for a change of scenery. Why should I have?"

"Gracie Peters did."

Sarah snorted.

"Don't you go on supposing that I fawn over you like a fox in heat the way the rest of the girls do."

"I've got too much respect for you to ever think that, Miss O'Brien. I just wanted your opinion on my haircut, you being a lady's maid and all."

"That's right. A _Lady's_ maid."

"Nothing wrong with wanting to look good."

"Men aren't supposed to care how they look, least of all our lot."

Thomas gave a single, humorless laugh.

"You're an odd one, Miss O'Brien."

She had plenty to say to that, but made the conscious decision not to. Who was he to call her odd? She adhered to the rules; she did her job and did it well. Perhaps she was slowly seething under the surface, but she never let it have the run of her. A part of her would always cling fast to the standard orders, even as she loathed them.

After a few minutes Thomas grew weary of the silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" he said though a blanket of smoke.

"You talk enough for the both of us."

"You talk enough yourself when you're with me. Course you're always awfully quiet at dinner."

"What's it to you? Why should I bother wasting my breath when I've got nothing to say?"

Thomas chuckled. "You're funny. I think people would like that about you."

Sarah didn't think much of his assessment until later that evening, when each of the servants, lined up in proper rank and file, for even on the bottom rung no one could escape the relentless stranglehold of English hierarchy, had sat down as one for the evening meal.

Sarah dug into her stew, steady and silent, as was par for the course. Thomas laughed and joked and flirted around his mouthfuls of lamb. Gracie Peters, head housemaid of two years, had taken a shine to the new second footman, and was conspiring with him from across the table.

"Do you suppose she'll get many offers?" she asked him.

"Who?" he replied.

"Lady Mary of course!"

Sarah overheard the nonsense from two seats up the table, and bit her tongue to repress her ugly reply. _Of course_. As if whole fractions of their lives weren't stolen away catering to their every whim and fancy, but now the tiny sliver of leisure time that remained to them must be spent discussing their love lives as well.

From the seat beside Thomas, Walter gave his tuppence on the matter.

"She doesn't need any offers, not with Mr. Patrick set to inherit."

At the head of the able Mr. Carson issued a deep rumble of disapproval. He might have spoken something as well, but Thomas didn't heed. He was fair along the way to memorizing every one of the butler's patronizing reproaches, and knew that the matter of Mr. Patrick and Lady Mary's betrothal was a "family affair" not to be discussed by such commoners.

"Maybe she won't want to marry Mr. Patrick," he said.

"That's right! She might get another suitor. Maybe she'll even fall in love!" Gracie squealed, sappy eyes set squarely on Thomas' face. He buttered her up with a reciprocal smile, which broadened to a smirk as he turned to Sarah and asked:

"What do you think Miss O'Brien? You having the ear of Lady Grantham and all."

All eyes were on her. She squirmed for a bit under the attention, seeking to forestall the addition of her input.

"What do I think about what?"

"Lady Mary's first season," he pressed. "Come on, then, you spend all day with her Ladyship, you must have some idea what Lady Mary's chances are."

Still Sarah was reluctant, pushing Gracie to impatience.

"But what _does_ Lady Grantham think?" she fervently asked her. "Will Lady Mary get many offers?"

"With all her mother's money done up into the estate, tied up tighter than my corset?" Sarah scoffed. "I wouldn't count on it. I think she's likely to make a right fool of herself, and we'll all be lucky if she doesn't give her poor mother a stroke while she does it."

Thomas smiled his approval, Mrs. Hughes looked suitably shocked, and a few under housemaids tittered as Sarah sealed her mouth. According to Mr. Carson, she'd said more than enough.

She returned to her stew, silent once again, feelers of gratification radiating down, squirming their way through the brambly bushes, warming a tiny portion of that perpetually frozen heart.

She looked over at Thomas, and smiled back.

* * *

The days were growing warmer, longer, and every one that passed without additional correspondence, additional news as to the well being of young Alfred compounded her unease.

Sarah confided in no one. Not even Thomas, the young man who had lately dug a wormhole through the wall of thickets she had carefully cultivated around her. She carried out her duties as usual, and had thought her distress was well concealed, hidden behind the mantle of indifference. But as usual Thomas surprised her.

"Everything alright?" he asked one morning, just a few days before the family was set to leave for London. Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the inquiry.

"Why shouldn't it be?" she snapped.

"I saw you in the corridor the other day. You were reading a letter. Seemed a bit more pale than usual."

"And what are you, my mother?" She was close to yelling. "What gives you the right to be nosing about my business, stalking me like I'm some fancy piece of jewelry you're looking to nick?"

Thomas flung down his fag. "I suppose nothing," he replied, a touch too bitterly, and strode crisply to the door.

Before he had a chance to steal back indoors she spoke. "It's my brother," she said quietly, and he immediately stopped, turning back around to rejoin her. He lit another cigarette and was halfway finished before she continued. "My mum and dad have turned him out, so he's decided to join the army."

Thomas raised an eye. "You got a brother still at home?"

"He's more a nephew, like."

"I see. What'd they do that for?"

"Because they're a pair of awful creatures, the both of them," she practically snarled.

"Aren't they all? Boxed ears and endless canings, that's all normal enough, but it doesn't explain why they'd abandon him."

"I can't really say." She fumbled for an explanation. "He's…he's different."

"What do you mean 'different'?"

"He's not like other men. He's…" Sarah pursed her lips. "He's different, that's all." The next she said with more firmness. "And he wouldn't last one minute in the army! They'll tear him to pieces, they will!"

It was vague at best, but her words still spilled icy trickles down his spine. Even if his guess was miles off the mark, the plight of this brother or nephew or whoever he was struck an obvious chord – _turned out of the house, not like other men_ – and where normally he'd relegate the troubles of others to the periphery of his notice, this time he decided to take action.

Thomas knew he would have to be careful, even with her.

_Betray nothing._

"So write to him." Sarah looked at him with visible surprise. "You tell him to keep his mouth shut and to lay low. No more babying him. It's a harsh world, unforgiving, and it won't be easy for him if he doesn't learn to toughen up and start playing by his own rules. He's got to do what it takes to look after himself if he wants to survive."

His words were laced with an embitterment that she'd never heard before, and which troubled her, but he seemed to be speaking through the painful lens of experience, and she knew better than to dismiss them.

Sarah wrote to her brother, and relayed all that Thomas had advised. The day before she was to accompany the family to London for Lady Mary's first season, she received a letter from the elusive Alfie.

He told her that her friend's advice had been taken to heart. And that he was sure everything would be all right.

An hour before departure, luggage packed, Taylor stowing it neatly into the boot of the car, and Lady Grantham along with the Ladies Edith and Mary prettily yet comfortably dressed for the long journey. For the entirety of the morning Sarah had been sent to and fro, collecting last minute trinkets and forgotten necessities. She was running haggard, not a minute to spare, but spare she would if it meant a last glimpse of a comforting face before the whole lot of them, herself included, were dragged away to the stinking city in the middle of summer. At last she found a single blessed moment to herself, which these days meant a moment to share with him.

She stood outside once more with him. There wasn't time for a smoke, or even for a chat. But the presence was enough, the feeling of a kindred soul in the same vicinity, and the knowledge that between them a tiny kernel was germinating, into what she could not yet say.


	2. Sapling Roots

****_I'd like to give a big thanks to **jadeandlilac** for betaing and generally being awesome._

* * *

**Sapling Roots**

While the family took their turn in Town the pace of the house inevitably slowed to a comfortable trot. Mrs. Hughes discovered a multitude of heretofore unknown nooks and crannies that needed going over, and which kept the housemaids busy enough through those immeasurable summer days; but for a footman, whose sole duty it was to dance attendance, there was little to do but watch and wait.

And wait he did, spending the bulk of his spare time in the village. He was never one to participate in the typical troublemaking of a young single man, the loud, the raucous, the violent. Much too obvious, and he preferred a more insidious avenue to indulgence. In due time he'd located those especially seedy places, where the gaming was quiet and serious, and the stakes as high as he could afford. The frequency of his presence in the back rooms of the butcher or barber expanded inversely to his decreased workload, and it was for this reason that his initial plans – to save some money and be on his way – were not unfolding as neatly as he'd liked. There was no doing, not when he had the self-control of a toddler and couldn't help but gamble or spend every farthing the minute he earned it.

It was there one evening that he saw him, swimming through the crowd like a fish – and just as drunk – waving about pocketfuls of ill-gotten cash with a sloppy grin on his face. Thomas lowered his hat and flipped up his collar, waiting and watching this man, his supposed superior, make an utter fool of himself before passing out unceremoniously on the floor, the other patrons stumbling heedlessly over him.

The moon in the sky smiled in full on the walk back home that night, a silver beacon of imminent good fortune. Thomas considered his very first day at the Abbey, when Carson had towered over him, a lecture reverberating down his throat pertaining to the rights and responsibilities of being employed by the venerable house of Grantham:

"_You are granted a half-day off every fortnight."_

"_What am I allowed to do?"_

"_Anything you choose, as long as it does not reflect badly upon our household. The Crawley name is an old one, a revered one, and its staff is seen as an extension of the family. If I am ever to hear of any conduct unbecoming of a member of this household, you can be sure there will be no hesitation; you will receive notice for an immediate dismissal."_

It had been spoken with the all rote cadence of a much delivered speech, but contained a genuine passion that made Thomas think the stodgy man believed it just as much on the hundredth recital as he did on the first.

That fateful night in the gambling den had occurred two weeks ago, with two more remaining until the family returned.

Nothing to do but watch and wait.

The summer continued to drag as the sun soared, ranging higher and longer with each passing day, an unceasing blight upon his perfect, pale complexion, and highly incompatible with a pitch black uniform. The cover of indoors was slightly more tolerable, but he preferred the solitude out back – at least in theory he did. Since the family and their retinue departed Thomas had been left with little diverting company, forced to compose witty monologues with nothing but the steaming grass as audience.

He was there now, watching the gardeners toil under a white sun as they watered the lawn for the third time that day, bemoaning the cropping brown patches. Thomas felt droplets of sweat gather along his hairline as he took another drag of his cigarette – the last in the pack, and his last pack at that. It was another reason for his dwindling savings. A habit required money to feed, and a life like his required a habit, a way to quench the smoldering bitterness, or at the very least keep it partially dormant. And if not another vice then what?

The result of all this was that his stay at Downton would be longer than he first calculated, and he began to shift to long term strategizing. Households like these were rife with politics, and if there was a way to campaign to the top he would find it, may have even found it already. However much he preferred to be a lone strategist, Thomas knew what he needed were supporters, allies. The awful truth was that a person needed allies wherever they went.

When the rays stretched directly overhead Thomas swept back inside to partake of the midday meal. He scrutinized the faces eating beside him, taking stock of his options. He surveyed the row of placid, doughy-faced housemaids with a critical eye. There was only one in the batch that stood out – a sharp faced blonde with clever, kind eyes – Anna, he knew, though he'd hardly ever spoken to her. They were a malleable bunch, to be sure, but not fit companions for what he had in mind. Hall boys were really just that, tiny men cowering through the halls, barely on par with the scullery maids whose scabby faces only surfaced when there was food on the table. The kitchen staff were beasts of a completely different nature, and the first footman was now more an obstacle to be toppled than an ally to be had.

That left only one other option.

The groundwork had been laid already, but not by any calculated design. They weren't quite two peas in a pod, the bitter Lady's maid and the cunning footman, but there was a brutal honesty in her manners that appealed to him, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to her from the moment they parried their first words.

But now he could and would push the connection further. He tried to tell himself it was only for his own sake, being an entirely selfish creature and not at all ashamed of that fact. But that night lying wide awake in bed, he couldn't stop picturing a lonely figure in black sewing stitch after stitch in silence, and wondering at the thoughts that tumbled around that impenetrable skull.

* * *

The family returned with mild fanfare, Lady Mary preening behind her mother, invisible laurels crowning her brow while a sour faced Lady Edith trailed after. Still in the schoolroom, the youngest had been left behind to toil under the harsh sun of an indulgent governess, and Thomas dutifully held open the wide front door as she went squealing down the hall from the other direction. She launched herself into her father's arms, barreling into him while they both laughed, her high pitched voice barely pausing for breath betwixt the flowing demands for presents and attention.

Thomas bit his tongue to keep it from lashing out – by her age he'd been working for two steady years and had received nothing from his parents but a regular thrashing as recompense – and as he bowed his head while she bounded back inside, tightly clutching her father's hand, he could barely restrain his own from slapping her clean across that plump, rosy cheek.

With the house full again he now had an ample workload to fill his time. The family was naturally exhausted from the busy season and would need near constant attendance to survive the day. Drinks were demanded, refreshments ordered; the bells in the hall danced like wind chimes in a tempest. Of course the Crawleys' attending staff in London was not allowed any respite from their journey, as befitting their lot, and Sarah was set to work straightaway unpacking her Ladyship's trunks and reorganizing her wardrobe.

Tea flew by. In a blink supper came and went. The family wished to retire early, and Sarah, exhausted down to her marrow, was blessed with an early evening off.

Through the filmy window of the hall the greying sky beckoned, and she slipped outside. The night was warm, but mercifully less stuffy than London, where every breath seemed permeated with smog and stench. Fairly ironic, since her lungs were now begging for a taste of the smoky residue they'd been taught to crave, and Sarah nearly tore the packet of fags in two in her haste to satiate the need.

She watched. She waited. She knew Thomas would join her shortly to retrieve all the sordid details of Lady Mary's first season, for they hadn't corresponded during their separation – and why should they have? They weren't lovers, were hardly even friends, and even using that word to describe her relationship with him seemed superfluous.

She was on her second smoke by the time he arrived, dressed in pristine black with hair better suited for a mannequin on display than an actual human being; though his normally sly eyes were made haggard by the inconvenience of a hard day's work. He began smoking, while the summer's sun, still low in the sky, did marvelous things to the curves of his face.

He was a handsome lad, she readily admitted. Sarah nearly envied the effortless way in which he conversed with his peers, charmed his betters, and worked his way into the hearts of the village girls. But she felt a certain pride in knowing that his act – and by now she knew that every flattering syllable and kind smile was dealt falsely – was dropped only for her. She had a singular access to his true motives.

When his cigarette was spent he broke the silence. "So how was London?"

Sarah watched the growing darkness claim the last of the grey horizon, and wished for the slightest ruffle of breeze.

Another season come and gone.

"Same as ever," she said evenly.

"That's it?" He narrowed his eyes. "You're in the busiest city in the country for over a month and all you have to say is that it's the same as ever?"

"What's it to us where we are? No matter what we're still running after them. They're the only ones whose lives ever change. We're stuck doing the same thing day in and day out, whether in London or Yorkshire."

"At least there's the change in scenery."

"That's if we ever have a second to go outside." Lingering resignation added a heftiness to her voice, replacing the usual upbeat curtness, and he looked at her as she continued. After all, she reasoned, what did a Lady's maid need going outdoors for? She had her half-days, true, but even then, she didn't know a soul in London outside of other domestics, and those only a thin few. She was a Yorkshire girl, born and bred, would probably be buried somewhere out in the moors.

At least then she'd have a second's worth of peace.

She cut off her speech with a perfunctory snort, and:

"Anything happen back here that I should be warned about?"

Thomas was relieved by the return to the normal order. "Not what you haven't probably seen a dozen times before. Mrs. Hughes had half the county dusted out, and I must have polished away a hundred scratches that I couldn't even see."

"Carson's orders?"

"Boredom."

"So with all your countless charms you couldn't find more interesting ways to spend your time?"

"Oh, I found plenty to do. Course it all ended once the coffers ran out."

Sarah studied the impassive profile. So that was it. A spendthrift. She should have known. The upkeep of all that poise and natty attire must come at a cost.

"They always do, eventually," she said with all her usual compassion, "and you may as well get used to it."

He remained silent. It was getting on to lights out. Electric luminescence blotted out entire handfuls of stars, but the ones still visible glimmered like diamonds on black velvet. When Sarah was a child she thought if she just reached high enough she might collect some for herself, those twinkling stones laid out against the jeweler's cloth. But since then she'd learned the hard lessons: however close they might appear, they were well outside her reach.

His mouth strained in a faint pucker, as if his tongue had somehow become distasteful. "If you think so," he finally replied with a short frown.

She puffed out a strand of smoke as her expression unwillingly mimicked his. It vexed her at times, the way he liked to look at life through his own distinct pair of rosy lenses, viewing at angles its non-negotiable aspects that she felt to be indisputable. "It's the way of things," she replied crisply. "No use arguing it isn't. And you'd do better to accept the facts than to keep on hoping for what we'll never have."

"That might be good enough for you, but I never did fancy playing with the hand I've been dealt. I think people like us should do whatever they can to get ahead," he explained.

"How do you mean?" she demanded.

"Nothing spectacular. It's all about subtlety. Getting people to believe what you want them to believe, and using it to get what's our due."

"Dress it up as you like. All you're talking about is lying and cheating."

He gave a small tut. "Some might call it that. But the way I see it, that all depends on who decides what's truth and who makes the rules. And it certainly isn't us."

She had no rebuttal to that, and was forced to concede the point.

"So are you saying you've got something planned?" she asked. Thomas smiled. "Well." She took a long, sustaining drag. "You can count me about as shocked as the lobster in the pot. I'd never have thought in a hundred years there was anything more in that half-empty skull of yours than schemes of haircuts and new waist coats."

His smile broadened.

"Watch and wait, Miss O'Brien. You'll see."

* * *

There was upheaval in the butler's pantry.

Housemaids tiptoed by, hoping to catch a whiff of the trouble, but no one could properly make out the muffled shouts issuing from behind the solid oak door. Even Sarah, at times apathetic to a fault, slowed the tempo of her stride as she neared. But though sharp as sword points, her ears still discerned nothing more than a low, stentorian current occasionally undercut by a ringing whimper. She might have left the matter to die and be buried without interference, but she was privy to insider information about who might be behind any trouble afoot, and found herself uncharacteristically determined.

She ran into him that afternoon, ostensibly by accident, on her way to retrieve a purposefully forgotten button.

"Do you know what's going on in there?" she asked, folded arms and dogged stance.

Thomas smirked. She was blocking the doorway out to the corridor, and it was either answer her question or move up a flight of stairs. The latter was more prudent, but he'd already ironed the papers that morning and felt he deserved a break.

"Haven't got a clue."

"All right then, keep your secrets." Thomas beat his retreat, but before vanishing though the closing door she asked, "You had something to do with it, didn't you?"

He turned his head around and smiled. "Course not. Besides, what do I know? Brainless as a clam shell, isn't that right, Miss O'Brien?"

But Miss O'Brien was beginning to have doubts on that score. True, he spoke with enough self-aggrandizing pomp to fill a dozen seats at parliament, but wasn't that how young men like him were, oceans of talk without a droplet of substance? Puffy bits of words lacking the weight of actualization, or any kind of meaningful moorings to make their voice worth even half a listen?

Dinner that night was like eating on eggshells. Sarah could name a few funeral parlors with more joviality than the long wooden table seating a houseful of silent diners, Mr. Carson's presiding at the head, an avalanche of barely concealed fury cascading down his face, and the normal seat beside Thomas notably absent.

Anna was the first to break the dirge-like silence.

"Mr. Carson," she began in her pleasant yet firm way. She glanced around for support at the dozen or so pairs of eyes that suddenly forgot her existence. "We were all wondering what happened to –"

"That will be enough, Anna. I do not wish to discuss Walter's dismissal any farther. Suffice it to say he was indulging in activities unbecoming of a member of my staff."

That sealed her mouth, along with the entire matter, or so it would seem. But any and every household inevitably contains a number of loose mouths, and within a few days the juicy morsels came dribbling in.

_Gambling. _

_They set up behind some of the shops in town._

_Mostly cards, sometime even a cock fight. _

_He liked to go over every now and again, try his hand._

It wasn't long after when, one night, the family tucked early into bed like good little children and the adults relaxing themselves in the hall after a long, exhausting day, Sarah meandered outside. Her roaming took her a fair distance away from the cone of light sheltering the small porch near the back door, to a tall, lone figure standing in the grass and staring up at the sky. He looked to be waiting, and stood motionless while he watched strings of fine, colorless particles float from his mouth up to the heavens as if in wordless prayer.

She launched her inquest without preamble.

"How did you know?"

His face stayed upturned, scouring the sky, but a tiny curve emerged at one corner of his insufferable mouth. "About what?"

"Don't be daft." She lit a cigarette. "About Walter," she said and placed it in her mouth.

"How do you think?" The corners flourished into a full-fledged smirk. "Because I saw him there."

"And I suppose he didn't see you with your perfect teeth dazzling in the candlelight? Never took you for the type to blend in."

"And why not?" he asked, looking at her for the first time. "I may look better than most, but I'm not stupid enough to get noticed by anyone in this house. And if he is…" He flicked some ash into the ground, features remorseless. "Then he had what was coming to him."

There was a small spurt of what Sarah was loath to label as admiration bursting up inside her. She hated undue arrogance, but she had to hand it to him this time. Less than six months into service and it was already done, Walter was gone, and the next vacant position in the household hovered squarely above Thomas.

He was still a raw recruit in the servant's world, and she had her doubts that he'd ever ascend to the lofty heights he'd set for himself; but for the moment she was impressed.

* * *

He'd been dropping hints for days. They fell rather subtly at first, while Carson was in the mere beginning phases of procuring a new footman. By the time an actual ad was placed in the local paper he became heavier handed.

He accosted her in the servant's stairwell one afternoon, on the landing to the fourth floor. Sarah was maddeningly behind schedule, her noose nearly tied if she couldn't get that ivory frock hemmed correctly before dinner.

"With Walter gone they'll be needing a new first footman," he levied for the third time that day.

"I suppose they will," she replied, disgruntled.

"Looking for someone with some years under their belt."

"Of course they are," she snapped, then polished her tone as if explaining to a stupid child. "They'll want someone who can actually do the job. There's more to being a footman than opening doors and looking pretty." And with that helpful parting hint she promptly elbowed past him and left.

She was less than thrilled when he brought it up again that evening after dinner. It was one thing to be a lone crusader subverting the standard order, and another to drag her into his scheming.

"Exactly what are you hoping for? That they'll promote you?" she quietly raged. "Not bloody likely. You've been a footman for what, all of three months? In a house like this it may as well be three seconds. They want someone with _experience_."

Face edgy and his feet clearly not going anywhere, Thomas was not to be deterred. But he was as close to ruffled as she'd ever seen him.

"I'm not lobbying for prime minister!" he protested. A scullery maid making a brief appearance out of the dungeon whence she came shot him a mousy stare, and he lowered his voice. "How much experience do I need to carry a tray around and answer the front door? Besides, I've already got the most important criteria taken care of," he said with a pointed preen, "and I don't need any practice for that."

She gave an acute shake of her head.

"They won't do it. Mr. Carson is very particular. No doubt but he'll bring in someone from the outside."

"Not if they've got a different set of orders coming from up top." His look just then was penetrating, calculating, engendering in her the unusual desire to fidget as she saw the wheels silently spinning through the dark glimmer in his eyes.

"And just what do you mean by that?" she asked.

"You've got the ear of the mistress…" His head cocked to one side, an indication for Sarah to complete the implication herself. Her eyes escaped to her hands, where she was irritated to find that she had worried a few sizable wrinkles into her skirt.

Mentally, almost absently, she added another dress pressing onto her unceasing list of duties as she pushed past him and stormed outside. His plotting was something in which to silently champion, not actively participate, and the thought of being his accomplice put her ill at ease.

Thomas followed casually a few paces behind, and when she finally stopped her advance he heard her say, "That lazy cow wouldn't listen to a word I said."

He walked to her side. "I don't think that. Have you ever tried?"

"Her Ladyship and I aren't friends," she informed him plainly and bitterly. "She doesn't give a farthing about what I think or don't think. All we ever talk about is her - her precious husband and beautiful daughters, or her daft friends. Complete gibberish, and it's all I can do to stomach it while giving off a proper 'yes, milady'."

"You've been changing her undergarments for the past five years. She's got to have some trust in you. Probably thinks you know all about downstairs and how it should be run, who's to be trusted and who isn't."

Her features began to show a relenting aspect. It was only a slight softening about her eyes, though Thomas could by now read the imperceptible signs, and he knew his appeals would not be in vain.

"And why should I help you get ahead?"

Thomas had planned for this very misgiving, being a creature of solitude himself.

"Everyone needs allies, Miss O'Brien," he answered.

"What says I want you to be mine?"

He made a show of glancing around the now empty hall. "Have you got any other takers? I'll bet with your cheery personality they're lining up for a chance just to bask in the sunlight." He tilted his head. "Come on now, Sarah – we look out for each other."

She was caught off guard by the use of her Christian name, which she hadn't heard voiced out loud in nearly two years. It made her response sound less caustic than she cared for.

"Do we?"

"We do. And if we don't then we may as well start now. Because no one else will." His eyes didn't become dewy, but there was a small hint of genuine feeling that sometimes found occasion to venture out of the heavily guarded confines of his heart. "People aren't meant to be alone in this world," he said.

Sarah hesitated. She could pass off every friendless hour as something of her own choosing, but Thomas was right. She was alone, she was lonely, and as angry as his words made her, she could do nothing but agree.

* * *

With the precision of a surgeon Sarah pinned up the long, dark tresses into an elegant and tidy up do. In regards to the art of coiffure, Lady Grantham's tenacious curls could be both a great asset and an even greater liability, and Sarah had learned early on how to wield the tangly mass into submission, sculpting it to her bidding, and garnering the Countess of Grantham with the enviable title of best dressed in the county.

The Lady was by now used to her maid's expertise, and these days hardly ever dropped so much as a single syllable acknowledging Sarah's praiseworthy efforts. Instead the Countess had been beaming in the mirror for a good hour as she rattled on about Lady Mary's numerous triumphs – redundant tidbits that Sarah had endured a dozen times already.

"His Grace seemed rather taken with her. Of course I'm not supposed to know, but my spies tell me he pulled her into the conservatory for a good half hour."

"It's no wonder that a Duke would be taken with one of your daughters, milady."

"And the Viscountess Brankson was there with her boy. He seemed a nice sort, and I've always been fond of Catherine. They say he's bound for the foreign office, that he enjoys the work even though there's no shortage of money." The glow in her eyes grew dim as Lady Grantham sighed. "But what am I saying? All this is moot. Mary is going to marry Patrick," she said with a note of resigned finality.

"If you say so, milady. Although, if you don't mind my saying, if Lady Mary has other suitors I don't see why she must be limited."

Lady Grantham snapped around. "That's been my very thought as well," she said with a breath of excitement, but it quickly dissipated as she sighed again. "But for all the flirting and secret rendezvous, she still didn't come away with a proposal."

And there was the sting, for both her and her daughter. Cora turned back around, patting her coiffured mane in inspection. If Mary, the crown jewel of the trio, could not wrangle in a single proposal, then heaven help her when Edith's turn came knocking next summer.

"How are things downstairs?" she asked Sarah idly, fingers twirling on a necklace.

Sarah swallowed – this was the moment – and braced her tongue. "Still trying to right themselves. Mr. Carson's already put out a notice. He's hoping to begin interviews sometime next week."

Lady Grantham shook her head.

"What an awful business with Walter."

"I must agree, milady. We were all suitably shocked."

"And had none of you suspected? It seems rather odd that he could be pursuing such inappropriate activities without anyone noticing."

"He was clever enough to fool most of us, but…" Sarah trailed off in that reluctant way of the servant.

"Yes, O'Brien?" Lady Grantham prompted.

"Thomas, milady. He mentioned something about Walter, said that something didn't seem quite right with him."

"Really? Thomas? The new footman?"

"Yes, milady. He's very sharp. Of course we were all hoping he'd be promoted, but Mr. Carson didn't seem to think you'd like someone without much experience."

"It's not desirable, but if he's clever, and he's got the makings to be a good first footman." She turned around once more to quiz her maid without the distraction of her own face in the mirror. "Do you think he'd be a good choice?"

Sarah nodded.

"I do think so milady. If he were to be given the chance."

"Well." Cora smiled. "We'll just have to make sure he gets one, now won't we?" she said in a faux conspiratorial whisper.

Sarah had to fortify her lips to keep them from grinning. She was beginning to wonder if she could have found her true calling on the stage, but discarded the idea quickly. More likely was it that Lady Grantham was simply as gullible as a lemming.

_And only half as intelligent._

She pulled and tucked until her Lady's visage sat complete before her. She was a beautiful woman, Sarah must admit, and in truth her mistress' not inconsiderable charms had at first appealed to her. Cora Crawley was a strange mix of half-baked breeding, disregarded solecisms, and downright novelty. Her American ways brought a vivacity of spirit, a burst of fresh air within the stale proceedings of these stately homes, and when even that failed to liven up the household, the clash of culture between her and the Dowager provided a never ending supply of gossip for the servants.

But in the end she was still one of the few, the privileged, the rich – a Countess by right even if she lacked the heritage of birth, and after only a single year in her service the bloom had been sliced cleanly off the stem.

Sarah dutifully and unobtrusively withdrew upon her Lady's request for privacy. She went downstairs to have herself a smoke, looking forward to more than just the succor of the tobacco. Had she struck a deal with the devil, she wondered on the way down. No matter. As far as she was concerned she was already in hell.

"Have you spoken to Lady G?" he asked her plainly when they had sequestered themselves.

"This morning. Told her how clever you are and how we were all hoping you'd get the post."

He smiled that undeniable smile, the deceiver's lips on the face of an angel.

"So I'll have it coming to me?"

She blew a patch of smoke into his face. "We'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

Carson would be the first to admit that a butler had his favorites, and that included his personnel. He was convinced Anna would make a fine head housemaid one day, and that Walter, before the unsavory revelation of his secret past time had come to light, would have been the perfect candidate to groom into a future butler. But of course having favorites by necessity dictated he also had his least favorites, and though he tried not to display it, he could not keep the distaste from entering his tone as he conferred Thomas with a new, and what he felt to be undeserved, set of responsibilities.

"On Lady Grantham's recommendation we have decided to offer you a promotion to first footman." His mighty brows narrowed as Thomas smiled serenely. "Do you accept?"

"With honor, Mr. Carson. And I promise I won't let you down."

Carson was somewhat surprised at how unsurprised Thomas appeared. The words were all in their correctness, but his manner was easy and presupposing, imbued with an unseemly amount of self-possession.

"See that you don't," he rumbled, and with nothing more to add the butler took his leave.

A few hours later, when their endless strings of duties serendipitously happened to cross, they met yet again – another stairwell, another corridor, another back door.

"Well?" Sarah demanded. Thomas said nothing, but smiled, and proffered her one of his dwindling supply of fine Turkish cigarettes, which she took gleefully, and consumed with relish.

Nothing could ever be said to blossom between persons such as Thomas Barrow and Sarah O'Brien, but standing side by side, this small victory won, they felt a mutual growth spread out beneath their feet, roots that stretched and twined together.


	3. A Garden Grown

_I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed this little story. Thomas and O'Brien are not the characters I naturally gravitate towards and this was probably the most challenging thing I've ever written. Special thanks to **Lavinia Swire** for her pinch hit beta!  
_

* * *

**A Garden Grown**

Time strolled in a place like Downton. A lazy walk, a moment to bend down and take in the scent of the garden, and before one knew it eight years had elapsed in pitiful redundancy, with nothing to show for it but a few cast off frocks and ten heavily calloused fingers.

Snowfall pattered the windowsill as Sarah perused her face in the mirror. Everyday she looked that much older, was that much slower. Her eyesight hadn't begun to fade, but how much longer before Lady Grantham decided she preferred the gay, sprightly creatures featured in the classifieds of her magazines to the dour face that required the shifting of mountains simply to crack a smile?

But she needn't have worried about age doing her in. By Christmas time, she had sensed her undoing long before it came: deep in her lungs – the influenza, the doctor had said – with a necessary several months rest at least to ensure that it didn't escalate to pneumonia. With perfunctory ease Mrs. Hughes had displaced her role in the house, seamlessly arranging for every gap to be filled.

"Grace can take care of her Ladyship while Miss O'Brien is recovering, and Anna –" a blonde head had perked – the young housemaid's eagerness rivaled any Deb on her premiere ball – "Do you think you can look after Lady Mary and Lady Edith?"

"You can count on me, Mrs. Hughes!"

Gracie Peters was young, efficient. She had not developed the expertise at needlework that for Sarah came instinctively, but like any skill it could be mastered in time. And while her manners could border on awkward and her flattery at times straddled too close to the line of sycophancy, time, as well, could iron out the wrinkles, sand away every rough edge till she gleamed like a polished stone.

One day ago Lady Grantham, in a magnanimous display decried by her mother-in-law as outside the bounds of any propriety and indeed common sense, had personally visited her convalescing maid to dole out the standard sympathies required of the noblesse oblige.

"Dear O'Brien, don't feel too down." Lady Grantham had been perched on the bed like a delicate dove, and Sarah had noted, with annoyance, the parcel of curls pinned far too loosely. "Just be grateful that we caught it early. Dr. Clarkson believes you'll make a full recovery in time." Her smile had been maddeningly sincere. Sarah preferred her disdain completely certifiable, and she could barely look the woman in the face as Lady Grantham had condescended to take her hand and pat it fondly.

Today marked the end of her second week since that first, fateful cough. The snowstorm whirling outside intensified, barraging the window till it rattled. Sarah sighed, and quit the seat at her washstand to sit upon the edge of her bed. On normal days her aching feet would sell half their soles for a few hours leisure; but now there was time enough for selfish restfulness, for painful ruminations, laying day after day in this moribund idleness. Once the initial fever had broken, all that remained was the endless stretch of recovery, a slow and steady march to inevitable yet healthy unemployment.

She knew herself to be walking that desolate road, but it was paved with a tiny consolation: she had a single ally in this great big house, and she prayed that his overtures of loyalty would prove to be more than empty promises of beguiling fruit.

* * *

By mid-January Sarah was nearly mended. She could walk about for a mote of time, do a few menial tasks before she had to get her feet up again. Though ordered to remain separated from the uninfected world, snatches of gossip still reached her quarantine – Gracie had been doing quite well for herself, by all accounts, and while such news was bound to cause a momentary lurch in her gut, she was only truly troubled when she heard the updates from the one source that mattered.

The doctor was gone, having just left off violating her person when Thomas sauntered boldly up the wrong set of staircases to enter her room during a lull in the afternoon. He was leaning casually against the wall, with enough gall to actually smoke in a sickroom. Fortunately for him, she did as well.

"Thought the good doctor recommended you lie like a sack of rocks for another two weeks at least," he said.

Sarah puffed angrily. "Sod the doctor. The man wouldn't know a healthy face from the grim reaper's own if it walked up to him and shaved off his mustache." She stood up from her place on the bed, suddenly prodded along by a foreign pair of antsy legs, and stationed herself by the window. The ground was soggy, overlaid by piles of dirty slush. "So Anna tells me Gracie's doing all right," she prompted.

"Maybe." There were no ashtrays here, these rooms barred from sullying with the scent of tobacco, and Thomas stubbed his cigarette into the empty glass on the nightstand as carefully as he chose his next words. "She's been yapping on about how well she and her Ladyship get on."

Sarah twisted around. "Has she?"

"She's got her eye on the prize, that one."

"Well then she's got eyes too big for her stomach. I've seen her handiwork; she doesn't know what it takes to be a proper lady's maid," Sarah clipped out vehemently.

"Maybe not." Thomas paused. "But Lady G's more nice than particular. And no one's heard her complaining."

However brutal, it was the bald-faced truth, which jaded realists like them always appreciated. But he was still made uncomfortable by the features that crumpled before him.

"Go on, then. I'm going to have a rest," she said, belying her abrasive tone with the body that slumped across the duvet in defeat.

* * *

Gracie was agog that morning, and as unbearably bubbly as she was every morning.

"And then her ladyship tells me that by spring she'll have no use for that light blue frock, the one with all them beads on the hem, and I can have it myself." Anna nodded gamely. "But can you imagine?" she squealed as her eyes grew two sizes. "I've never had something so nice of me own!"

Thomas grabbed a chunk of sawed off sponge cake – meant for luncheon, but Mrs. Patmore never minded his habit of sneaking a scrap – and headed off in the direction opposite of Gracie's voice. He passed by the library on his mission of avoidance, catching in his periphery the faint, familiar sight of a robust mustache wiggling in front of Lady Grantham's face as the mouth beneath it moved, and conveniently recalled that he had some tidying up to do in that very room.

Neither party took notice of a footman's ubiquitous presence as Thomas busied about one of the many desks.

"Tell me, Doctor, how is she?" he heard her Ladyship ask in subdued, concerned tones.

"Better. I listened to the lungs this morning and they're much clearer. She claims she's healed enough to begin working again…."

Her head cocked. "But you have a different take on the matter?"

"In my professional opinion…at her age, Lady Grantham, it is always best to be cautious."

"I see. Thank you, Doctor Clarkson."

As was his wont, Carson materialized at just the right second to escort the doctor away as Lady Grantham bid him adieu. Chin upturned, poised on the sofa as a Grecian statue, she did not suffer a single muscle to shift as she called out smoothly:

"Thomas?"

He nearly jumped. Used as he was to being on par with the furnishings, he had to remind himself that just because his presence was treated as unnoticed didn't necessarily mean it was not noted.

He moved wordlessly to her side.

"I think –" She turned her head to face him. Her expression was indiscernible. "I think perhaps it might be best for her to keep to her bed a while longer. Till she is completely recovered." There was no need to specify of whom she spoke. "Carson will be ringing the dinner gong any moment. Could you inform Miss Peters that I'm going up now?"

Thomas bowed, and left the room.

* * *

Only one hand was allowed to turn the key that partitioned off the men's and women's corridors, and that hand steadfast in its quest to maintain the chaste order, probably even now clutching the set of keys like a life preserver, nightmares of colluding maids and footmen sifting through her slumbering mind.

But they had the foresight to pre-arrange, and with all his natural boldness Thomas was able to sneak quietly through the most decidedly unlocked door. Unconsciously counting the number of doors as he went, he paused about halfway down the corridor. The placard bearing her title was spotless. He opened her door a finger's space, peered through, saw the wakeful figure awaiting him by candlelight, and did his best not to audibly snicker at her ridiculous nightcap.

He went inside, the door shutting on noisy hinges behind him.

"About bloody time!" was all he received as greeting for his trouble. "I'm a sick women – I do actually need some of the night for sleeping!"

"Easy, Miss O'Brien." The small flame added a sinister appeal to his smile. "Got away as soon as I could manage. And I'd thought you'd had enough of dozing during the day, locked up in here like some lunatic wife."

She sat down and looked at him expectantly. Without delay he relayed to her the day's proceedings.

"So it's Miss Peters, now, is it?" O'Brien stormed, pacing as she went. The acidity in her voice could not be buffered even tuned several decibels lower in volume, and she continued on in harsh whisper: "She may as well announce she's got a new lady's maid and tell me I've got the sack!"

Thomas spanned the next few minutes with silence, letting the night soak into her pores in the hope that the chilly darkness would calm her down a few notches. At length she began to relax; her expression molded back to its preset indifference and she reclaimed her seat on the bed.

"Not so hasty, Miss O'Brien," he finally replied. "You know these soft types. They're scared of illness. One thing money can't save them from, after all."

O'Brien scoffed.

"She's got naught to be worried about. Grew up corn fed in middle America like the cows. I've never seen that woman get so much as a trifling cold the whole time I've been waiting on her. Ten to one but she'll live to be hundred without ever sneezing."

She was growing agitated once again, mouth puckering, eyes narrow and astringent. Thomas smothered a groan at her fidgeting hands.

"Take a breath. You look a fright enough as it is without flashing that manic face around." He moved to the door, balanced his hand on the knob, and said firmly, "There's no need to worry."

"What do you mean? A few more days of me doing nothing and it will all be decided without any say so from me."

The handle turned.

"I've taken care of it."

"Have you?"

The door creaked open a slice.

"I have."

Sarah wavered. She shouldn't ask for details. She should let him leave and leave him to it. Nodding her head once, she said nothing, and climbed under the thick, scratchy blanket as he made his exit.

She heard the soft click of a closing door, and slept like a lamb the rest of the night.

* * *

The cry went up the next morning at breakfast.

"Lord Grantham has informed me that a pair of Lady Grantham's earrings have gone missing. I trust this was merely an oversight, an innocent misplacement, and that none of _you," _he punctuated with controlled menace, "were personally involved in its disappearance."

Carson's eyes probed unforgivingly, but every face was carved into the expressionless mask that years of training had hewn. He would get nothing out of them, and trusted to integrity, to the common decency, and to the proper order to carry the day. With a last wilting scowl Carson left as forebodingly as he came, and the room let out a collective breath.

"Now what could that be all about, I wonder?" Anna asked innocently.

Mending a shawl from beside her, Gracie barely paused for breath before elaborating.

"Oh, Anna, I know all about it! I was tending to her ladyship just this morning and for some reason she was looking over her jewel case, and what do you know, but she gives this little yelp – like a right puppy, she was – and asks if I know where the sapphire studs have gone off to."

Anna blinked. "But what's happened to them?"

"Cant' say." Gracie held the garment aloft before her. A touch crooked at the bottom, Thomas noted from over the paper he was not even attempting to pretend to read. "Her Ladyship's a flighty sort," she continued. "Always leaving things here and there." She shrugged. "I'm sure they'll turn up."

Thomas smiled.

"I'm sure they will."

* * *

The walls in the attic hid nothing, their paper-thin divisions seemingly built for divulgence.

Morning was calm. The afternoon hummed as it always did during the changing hour. It was near to evening, not long before dinner, when the commotion struck, tumultuous chords vibrating down the hall.

The first thing Sarah heard was wailing. Beginning softly, the curdling cry quickly crescendoed till ringing right outside her door, and then petered out to nothing. A door slammed. Another noise, succinct as the last one was broad – a pair of sharp-tipped, clacking shoes – followed the same pattern, germinating in volume as they moved quickly past Sarah's door, then down two more, to creak open and bluntly shut into what was Gracie Peters personal quarters.

She could hear nothing from this far over, and went outside her confines into the empty hallway. She stared at the door to the occupied room emitting a range of muffled noises, and pressed the side of her head flush against it. Mrs. Hughes' brogue was sadly muted, but Gracie's shrill cries cut a straight path to her burning ear.

"I didn't steal nothing!"

An indistinct mumble answered, then:

"Honest, Mrs. Hughes! I've been framed, that's what!"

Several minutes of high-octave whimpering ensued, placated by a rich, maternal alto whose comforting specifics Sarah was mercifully spared from discerning, before the abrupt tinkling of metal keys forewarned a hasty discovery. Sarah jumped back, quickly strode back to her door, and slipped discreetly inside.

Not smiling, but not frowning either, she dressed herself – proper this time, not the makeshift job of this morning – and set her hair into the tightly laced style so unbecoming on anyone else. Within the hour she was summoned, and she bounded down, a slightly extra bounce to her curls. Lady Grantham needed an extra hand in getting her gown on, Mrs. Hughes informed her, for Anna, though a quick study, was simply not yet ready to undertake such a task alone.

* * *

"And to think, she's been thieving the entire time!"

It was the first sunny day all month. The beams bounced merrily through the room, setting the flamboyant hat that Sarah was now inspecting to good advantage. The maid's throat itched as if one of the extravagant plum plumes had been stuffed down her esophagus, and though a single cough might alleviate the discomfort, she stifled down any such suicidal inclinations and pressed forward.

"It's a terrible thing to consider, milady," she replied, only mildly rasping. "I think it best you not dwell on it any longer. It will only do to upset you."

"You're probably right." Lady Grantham sighed, light and fragile as the first autumn breeze, and Sarah wondered that she could have ever despised them. "It's so difficult to find good help these days. I feel lucky that I've already got you." Sarah pinned down the hat onto a perfectly shaped bob, and caught the slight curve in her lips peeking behind her lady's preening head dancing from side to side. "Dear O'Brien, what a relief it is to have you back! I don't think my hair can thank you enough."

It was gratifying to be here, Sarah realized. Her exile lifted, flitting about in the bright and spacious room, even if on behalf of another, did much to mollify her spirits. Sarah had no doubt that time would veer her course back to the tepid waters of embittered servitude, but for the time being she relished the open, airy views and the refreshment of activity, and could almost count herself happy. The Countess gave a last parting primp before floating out of the room and down the staircase, her appearance nothing short of heavenly when Taylor rolled the car around to take her and the girls into Ripon. Sarah saw them depart from the high-perched window, watched the snugly fit feathers flapping in the wintry wind, and then finished tidying up the dressing room.

Luncheon approached as she finished and Sarah, healthy and restored, strode with a lion's heart down to the hall.

Mrs. Hughes stopped short in the midst of her eighteenth task for the day when she saw the previously indisposed lady's maid alive and kicking.

"Miss O'Brien. It's good to see you up and about."

"Is it?" Sarah replied, only a small step away from archness. "I thought you'd not care to see me so quickly recovered, grooming Gracie up to take my place as you were."

Elsie's lips pursed. "What I care most about is having a fit, capable, and honest staff. What with Walter's dismissal and now that horrid business with Gracie…yes I am most assuredly glad to have you back, whatever you might take away from that."

They convened at the long table where scullery maids had already dished up their pleasant helpings of stew. Sarah felt something like a princess at a ball the way everyone's eyes roved over her pallid yet confident face. She noticed with delight the absence of Gracie Peters, and was amused to see that Anna had been promoted a seat closer to the head of the table.

"So, Anna," Sarah began. "New head housemaid?"

Anna started. She could not recall the last time Miss O'Brien had addressed her directly.

"That's right," she answered cautiously. "I'll also be looking after Lady Mary and Lady Edith, and I suppose Lady Sybil as well, once she's out of the school room. Seems a bit of a challenge, looking after all three." Her face grew pensive. "And me having hardly ever spoken to any of them…."

"Of course you haven't," O'Brien said with a small, barking scoff. "And why should you have?" But there was some sympathy, a tiny shred of solidarity, as Sarah recalled her christening as a lady's maid, remembered how daunting the landscape appeared when she first put the brush to the fine mane of a real lady. No more folding linens in the darkness – now she must take center stage for the family, converse with them, dress them, ply them with flattery and cloying sentiments like a master confectioner.

"Maybe if I need some help…." Anna started somewhat shyly, but not apologetically. "You wouldn't mind showing me a few tips? Secrets of the trade, and all that?"

"I might not. Just mind that you put in the proper time yourself before you even think of coming to me for help," Sarah replied, surprising herself with her generosity.

The whole of the meal she did not glance even once in his direction, occupied as they both were in other conversations. The meal ended. Everyone dispersed. Lady Grantham and her daughters had not yet returned from their expedition.

She stepped outside and took an eager breath of fresh air. He was smiling when he approached her, as was she, and they stood together, side-by-side, two trunks grown tall and strong, deeply rooted.

He brought the smoking stick to his lips. "Didn't I tell you I'd take care of it?" he asked with a smirk.

"You did."

_And I won't ever forget it._

Sarah held few things sacred, but loyalty ranked as first. There may be those that would try to fell them, but they would never succeed, not while they had each other. And while time might never be on her side, she had an even better ally that was.

She had tasted the fruit, and it was good.

END

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_Thanks for reading :)_


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